


moon gives me permission

by Anonymous



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Consent Play, Kink Anxiety, Kink Exploration, M/M, Rape Roleplay, Sadism, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 06:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: There's really no polite way to just bust out with “so I think I'm a monster?”





	moon gives me permission

**Author's Note:**

> Set while they were at UM. Zach is the POV character and is into sadism/consent play and is kinkshaming the shit out of himself for it and not in a fun way. There's no actual noncon in this--just a lot of anxiety around fantasy related to that (and an offhand mention of that type of porn, which does have its own issues wrt that built in), and some acting out of that fantasy in a roleplay context. 
> 
> I have absolutely no idea what brought this whole thing on, I'll be honest.

There's no good way to bring it up. There probably is never _going_ to be a good way to bring it up.

“Hey,” Zach says, sprawling out onto the dirt, bits of twigs and rocks poking him in the back, and Dylan looks down at him from the log he's sitting on. “Um.” 

“Hm?” Dylan's eyes are bloodshot and he's smiling, faintly, too high to have much worry about anything, just now, and Zach loses his nerve. 

“Um. Nothing,” Zach fumbles. 

They're in a little nook of Pioneer Woods, too stoned to have much in the way of coherent sentences, and Zach is trying to just enjoy himself but this little curl of anxiety keeps worming in, this thing that's all he can think about every time he lets his control slip. He can't say it. 

They're hooking up, though it's casual enough that it's not really a Thing particularly, and Dylan has told him about some pretty fucking weird kinks he's got—told him about one or two while they've been out here, even, but how the fuck do you bring this up. 

How the fuck do you say to someone you care about, “it's not that I actually want to hurt anyone in a way that they don't want to be hurt I just want them to pretend they don't want me to do it.” 

Even that thought is enough to send an uneasy coil of arousal through him. He doesn't want to do anything Dylan doesn't want, because that's awful, but like. Sometimes he just wants to keep biting Dylan and have Dylan tell him to stop that, it hurts, and to not stop. Or—more than just biting. 

There's really no polite way to just bust out with “so I think I'm a monster?” 

*

Zach thinks about it too fucking much, is the trouble. He tries not to. He really does. Every time he's bored or tired or something's got him riled up his mind goes straight there, and he ends up in the shared bathroom in the middle of the night watching shit on his phone with his headphones in and frantically jerking off, hoping to god the women in these videos really are just acting and it's not—it's not real. They're not amateur, or don't look it, so probably it's not, but. There's always that chance. He comes and hates himself because it's the tears, the “no”s, that are what gets him there, and he doesn't fucking know for sure that they're faked. 

He showers, after, for way longer than he needs to, the taps turned as hot as they'll go like it'll scald off the thoughts he has to stop fucking having. Sometimes he has nightmares about talking in his sleep and telling someone that way. How they'd stay away from him, fear in their faces, or just straight up try to beat him to death. It's not like he doesn't feel like he'd deserve it, either. 

The thought of that being real, though—he'd never. Not in a thousand years. It makes him queasy just thinking about it. But even when it's just fantasy, just videos and fucked-up thoughts he has when he bites Dylan's neck or keeps fucking him after Dylan's come and Dylan is shuddering under him, overwhelmed, it still makes his skin crawl.

It gets him off so fast it hurts, too, though. That's the problem.

*

“What is it with you and biting me?” Dylan complains, shoving at him. “Ow.” He's got a giant hickey forming on the side of his neck, high up enough that all the guys on the team are going to chirp him about it, and Zach's stomach drops even as his hips shove down into the bed, just hearing the “ow,” and fuck, _fuck_. 

“Sorry,” Zach says, and he means it, but Dylan's looking at him in a way that makes him feel just—too seen, and he feels like he might be sick, even as the need to get off has gone from urgent to overwhelming. 

“You're really into it, huh,” Dylan says, rubbing the side of his neck before shoving at Zach's hip to roll him over so he can get ahold of his dick. “Marking me up. Do you like that they're going to all see it?” 

His voice is low, and it makes Zach shudder, but—no, that's not what he likes about this. At least that's not most of it. 

“It's alright,” Dylan says. 

It's _not_. 

“Like we haven't done weirder,” he continues, jerking off Zach quick and ruthless, grip tight, grinning the whole while. “I had to pretend I had a girl over, Niko found what was left of those panties under the bed last week.” 

Zach laughs. He can't help it. Dylan's ass looked amazing in them, and he doesn't regret for a second ripping them in his haste to get inside Dylan. Liked the red marks they left, after, too. But imagining Dylan having to explain that to Niko, after—god. 

“Should have been more of a gentleman,” Zach gasps out, still half-laughing even as he's squirming up into Dylan's grip. “Bet she spent a lot of money on those for you to rip them up.” 

“What can I say, I'm a beast,” Dylan says. 

“Always,” Zach says, and he's still smiling as he comes, so fond of Dylan it hurts.

That's the problem, too. He cares too much about Dylan to risk Dylan never wanting to speak to him again, or to risk Dylan being afraid of him, or—anything else. 

*

They're at a party, game already behind them and the rest of the weekend stretching out long and promising, some frat house Zach has already forgotten the name of whose members have enough cash to drop that it's not just shitty beer he's drunk on for once, and Dylan is in his lap. His hands are on Dylan's hips, and once in awhile he jiggles them in time to the music because it makes Dylan laugh and riles them both up. It's like an extremely discount lapdance. 

“You're a shitty dancer,” Zach informs Dylan, deadpan, and Dylan pouts a bit, wiggling on his lap with his beer held out at arms length so there's no danger of him spilling it on the two of them. 

“I just need to give it 110%,” Dylan says. 

“And get pucks in deep?”

“Get _something_ in deep,” Dylan says, grinding down onto Zach with a little more intent, and Zach's next breath comes out shuddery. 

“Grab a bottle and let's get out of here,” he says, because it's either that or just start stripping Dylan in front of everyone, and that's not really a part of their lives he's ready to share with the team just yet. 

They walk back to the dorm with a bottle of tequila stashed down Dylan's pants, like the very mature adults they are. 

“Tequila makes her clothes fall off,” Dylan warbles. He's completely out of tune and the words come out a bit garbled, but it makes Zach laugh anyway. 

Later, he pushes Zach down into the shitty dorm mattress and rides him slow and steady until Zach can feel his pulse in his eyelids, stopping once in awhile to take a swig right out of the bottle before settling back down into the grind. He's gorgeous. He's a mess; he spills some of the tequila on Zach's chest, and licks it up, later, after it's mixed with his own come. 

Zach just tries to hold on and breathe. 

*

Later, when they're laying side by side in the dark, still mostly drunk, Dylan says, “I would have let you do it at the party.” It's low, confessional. “Well. I mean—not really? But at a party. Where we didn't know people. Where we wouldn't get kicked off the team.” 

“You want them to watch you?” 

“Yeah.” Dylan huffs out a breath and rolls over to hide his face in the pillow. “I know it's fucked up.” 

“I'm more fucked up than you're ever going to be,” Zach says, staring up at the ceiling. “It's alright.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“I _am_.” This is the closest he's ever come to talking about It, and it's hard to breathe. “You don't know.”

“So tell me.” 

“I can't.” 

“Why not?” Dylan reaches out, a hand on Zach's chest, and Zach closes his eyes. 

“I don't want you to—you'd look at me different. I can't.” 

There's a long pause. Finally, Dylan says, “I wouldn't. I don't know what it is, but I wouldn't. I promise.”

_You don't know that_ , Zach thinks but doesn't say, but he's not brave enough to keep talking about this. 

The silence stretches out and finally Dylan says, “Fine. I swear you can tell me, though. When you're ready.” 

Zach just nods. It's too dark for Dylan to see him do it, and partly that's the point. He pulls Dylan in towards him and adjusts the covers, and instead of having to answer properly, he lets himself drift off into sleep. 

*

Everyone's already a little put-off by him. He's got a weird face. His eyes get too wide sometimes and he looks kind of freaky, and he's not very good at having facial expressions. He looks like the sort of person that would have a mugshot for—stop, brain, stop. He shakes his head, trying to clear the thoughts, and for god's sake he's trying to just mind his own business in the dining hall and think about normal things and he let his guard down for a moment and now he's _definitely_ going to be putting people off because there's no way he's not showing some of this on his face right now. He doesn't want to think about shit like this, and that's exactly why his brain _makes_ him think about shit like this, and it is the Fucking Worst. 

“Sup,” a voice behind him says, and he jumps. 

It's just Dylan. He needs to calm the fuck down. 

When he turns to face Dylan, Dylan's eyebrows are up and he's looking down at Zach, lip caught between his teeth. 

“I'm fine,” Zach says, though he doesn't know who he thinks he's fooling, because it's definitely not Dylan. 

“You're not.” Dylan holds out the brownie on his tray to Zach, and Zach shrugs and takes it. It's not in either of their meal plans, but fuck it. 

“We're gonna talk about this,” Dylan says, quiet, sitting down beside Zach. “Something's been eating you. I don't know what you did, but--”

“I didn't do anything,” Zach says, too fast. It's true, but it scares the shit out of him that Dylan's getting the vibe that he _did_. 

“Uh, whoa.” 

“I _didn't_.” He's just making it worse now, but he can't stop himself. 

Dylan's eyebrows go higher, forehead scrunching. “We're talking about it anyway. Come back to the room once you're done eating, I got some rum from one of the guys.” 

 

“Alright.” Zach can barely force himself to swallow at this point, but he manages to choke down a few more bites. 

He follows Dylan back to the dorm, sick with dread. 

*

As soon as they get into the room Dylan hands Zach the bottle, and Zach takes a huge swig, managing to swallow it down but coughing after, eyes watering. 

“It's a sex thing,” Dylan says, without preamble. “I got that much. It's not—kids, right.” He's trying to hide the dread on his own face but not doing a great job of it. 

“Oh god no,” Zach says, grimacing. “No. Nothing like that.” 

“Animals?” 

“ _No!_ ” 

“Okay,” Dylan says, visibly relaxing. “As long as those are both no you're not gonna be able to tell me something that will make me look at you different.”

Zach takes another long swig, trying to steel his nerves. 

“I.” 

“It's okay.”

“It's really not.” 

Dylan sighs. “Z, it really is. It's okay. Just tell me.” 

He's not going to let up until Zach tells him. There's no way out of this—he's just going to have to rip the bandaid off. 

“I—sometimes. I wouldn't ever for real, I would never want to for real, but.” 

“But?”

Zach's voice comes out so quiet. “You know when I bite you really hard and you tell me to quit it?”

Dylan nods.

“Sometimes after I get off thinking about not stopping when you say that. Or. Y'know. Stuff like that.” 

“Oh,” Dylan says, and there's a pause. His expression hasn't changed, but Zach's stomach turns anyway. Here it is. Here's where Dylan punches him. “I guess if that was me I'd be afraid to say it too.” 

“Say--” He can't tell. Fuck, he can't tell how Dylan is taking this, there's no clue on his face, and Zach's starting to get dizzy. He's not breathing right. Fuck. 

“You get off on wanting to hurt people,” Dylan says, quiet. “Wanting to hear “no” and ignoring it.” 

“Not for real,” Zach chokes out. Hearing it said out loud like that—it's so bad. Fuck. He's definitely not breathing right now, wheezing every time he takes a breath, vision spotty. 

“Hey. Hey, shit, fuck, it's alright, fuck, breathe. Z. Breathe.” 

It's not alright, but Dylan puts a hand on his back and Zach forces himself to take a long, steadying breath. 

“If it's not for real,” Dylan says, rubbing his back. “If it's only when we're pretending it's real, then—it's not really you wanting to hurt someone. I mean. Physically, it is. But it's not—the rest of all that.” 

“It's still bad,” Zach says miserably, squeezing his eyes shut. “You know how that sounds.” 

“Yeah,” Dylan says. “I know. But like—you remember when we went into that shop?”

The sex shop, he means. Mostly it was a joke to go in, and they looked at all of the cheesy porn DVDs, but there was a lot more there that caught Zach's eye than he admitted to at the time.

“Yeah?”

“They had all those whips and paddles and shit like that there. That's wanting to hurt somebody too.” 

“That's different.” 

That kind of stuff—it feels more controlled. More of a thing he can put in a mental box of 'sex stuff' that feels okay. 

“It's not _that_ different.” 

“I don't understand why you haven't punched me yet,” Zach admits, after a pause. 

“Because I know you don't want it to be real,” Dylan says. “You almost had a panic attack just thinking I might _think_ you wanted it to be real. If I really wanted to stop—not said it, 'cause that's a thing for you, apparently, but really meant it—you would.”

“I would,” Zach confirms. He takes another long breath and another drink, trying to calm himself down properly. 

“Then okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay as in 'we can try it out sometime.' I trust you.” 

Zach's eyes go wide. 

“I mean,” Dylan is quick to add. “Not here. These walls are thin as fuck. But—sometime. Let's go camping or something.” 

“We can do camping,” Zach says, heart pounding. In the meantime, he paws at Dylan, trying to get him close, like the switch from anxiety to arousal got flipped. Dylan's face is so red. He looks so good. All he can think of is what it's going to be like, and he comes so fast it's embarrassing, just rutting frantically against Dylan's leg, still fully clothed. 

Fuck. 

*

There's a little campground half an hour south of Ann Arbor, all secluded cabins and thick woods, and Dylan nods his acceptance as Zach books them a place, thumb sneaking under his waistband to rub at his hipbone. Zach shudders and leans into it and can barely breathe with how much Dylan is trusting him with this. Knowing what Zach wants and still wanting to be alone with him out in the wilderness—he doesn't have the words for that. _I love you_ , he thinks and doesn't say, the first time he's let himself so much as think it. This thing of theirs doesn't feel very casual in the moment. 

They drive down on a Sunday, after back to back games at home, tired and bruised and filled with the adrenaline of two wins in a row. Zach keeps looking over at Dylan in the driver's seat the whole way, waiting for him to stop the car and turn around, waiting for him to get cold feet, to say, “so I thought about it more and what the fuck is wrong with you.” He doesn't. 

“How do you want to do this?” Dylan asks, as they get close, his voice low. “Just—go for it in the middle? Pretend I'm someone else, let me go in first?”

“I don't know,” Zach admits. He's never let himself think this far. 

“I'll go in first,” Dylan says, after a moment, thinking through it. “So I'm a straight guy--”

“You're a straight guy?”

“Shut up, I'm explaining. I'm just taking some time off, relaxing by myself out here. I'm not expecting anybody. Not into guys. I wouldn't be into a guy coming into the wrong cabin--” 

Zach gets a semi so fast he goes dizzy with it. “But if a strange guy did come into your cabin.” 

“I'd kick his ass, if I was awake, but if I wasn't, and it was a big guy who had me pinned by the time I woke up, all I could do was struggle, right?” 

“Right,” Zach says faintly, reaching down to adjust himself. “Larks, are—is this doing it for you too?”

“It's growing on me,” Dylan admits. “I don't know if this strange guy would want to tie me up, or would want to hold me down himself. What do you think?” 

“I think he'd want to feel you fight it,” Zach says, and Dylan better get them there quick or he's going to just stick a hand down his pants on the drive in. “But if he was already inside you when you woke up, and you were on your stomach, it would be hard to do much.” 

Now Dylan is the one who's squirming, a little. “Once we get there, go for a walk for a little bit. I think I could go down for a nap for real if you give me like twenty minutes.”

“You want me to actually start when you're asleep?” 

Dylan nods. “And I don't know what I'm going to say in the moment, but. If it's too much and I'm getting freaked out, I'll say Ohio, okay? Otherwise don't stop.” 

Zach cracks up. He can't help it. “Good pick for a word.”

“Least sexy thing I could think of,” Dylan says, and he's cracking up too.

They rumble down the gravel path to the cabin and Dylan takes the keys, fingers brushing Zach's. “Twenty minutes. I'll leave the door unlocked.”

“Twenty minutes,” Zach repeats, heart pounding. 

It's going to be a long wait.

*

Zach paces back and forth in the clearing behind the cabin, checking his phone what feels like every five minutes, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to give Dylan time. Finally, the alarm he set goes off and he takes a deep breath, slipping his phone into his pocket and making his way to the door. He leaves his shoes outside. Quieter that way. The door doesn't squeak when he opens it, and he closes his eyes for a moment and steps in. 

Dylan really is asleep. Zach would know those soft snores anywhere. He's sprawled out face-down on the bed, naked, and the duffle bag beside him is partially unzipped already, a bottle of lube poking out. Not even the sound of a zipper to wake him. He thought this through. 

The floorboards creak a little, but Zach is careful as he walks, taking it slow, stripping off as he goes. Dylan looks so peaceful. He doesn't even know Zach's come in yet. 

Zach slicks up his fingers and kneels up onto the bed, waiting to see if Dylan stirs, but Dylan's soft snores continue. It's so much, like this, and the thrill that goes through him as he gently trails a lube-slick finger down Dylan's crease is overwhelming, and then he realizes—Dylan's already opened himself up. He doesn't have to be slow and careful, trying to finger him open without waking him. He can just _take_. 

He pushes in, slow but relentless, and Dylan wakes up. His eyes go so wide. 

“Wh—what the fuck? Who are you?” he asks, panicked, voice scratchy with sleep, and Zach smiles and reaches out to pin Dylan's hands to the bed before he's fully awake, fully reactive, and Dylan thrashes, trying to struggle out from under him as he sinks in. “Fuck, please, _stop_ ,” he continues, pleading, and Zach bottoms out, hips against Dylan's ass, letting him feel the full length of him. “Please,” he continues. 

“Nah, I'm good,” Zach says, grinning, getting into character, pushing forward a little even though he can't get deeper. “You feel good.” 

Dylan tries to kick, then, and Zach flattens himself against Dylan, the whole weight of his body pinning him down, feeling him try so hard to struggle away, but he can't. He just has to lay here and take what Zach is giving him. 

“ _Don't_ ,” Dylan begs, as Zach pulls back and starts to thrust. “Please, don't, it _hurts_ , please.” Zach shudders at that, fucking in harder, an audible smack of skin on skin. 

“Think I'm just going to keep you here,” Zach says, holding Dylan's wrists tight. “Maybe tie you up next, just keep fucking you whenever I want.” He leans down and bites the curve of Dylan's shoulder, harder than he would normally ever allow himself, and Dylan cries out, pained. “It _hurts_ ,” he chokes out, and he sounds like he means it, this time, and Zach bites harder. “Please.” 

His eyes are tearing up, and it makes Zach fuck in harder, faster, soaking up the pained little cries Dylan makes, and he wants so bad to draw this out, make it last, but Dylan's face is red and there are tears in the corner of his eyes and he keeps saying, “please, it hurts,” in this high, thready voice, and Zach thrusts in two more times and then comes, slicking Dylan up inside, and Dylan shudders and tries to fight again, a little. 

Zach hesitates a moment before he leans down to press a kiss to the back of Dylan's neck and pulls out. He lays down on the bed beside Dylan and huffs out a breath before looking over, heart in his throat, and Dylan is still red-faced and teary-eyed, but he's smiling, a little. 

“Let me get you,” Zach says, and Dylan snorts and gets up onto his knees and Zach can see the smear of his come on his own stomach, his soft cock, and a little aftershock of arousal zings through him. “Really?” 

Dylan shrugs. “It's not my thing like it is yours, but—I'm into it when I know you're into something.” 

Zach honestly has no idea what to say for a moment, because “I love you” would be a moment of zero chill on his part and “you're the greatest, bud” feels a little too platonic bro, and so he settles on sighing and resting his head on Dylan's chest, going “I'm glad.” 

“Also do you think I should try out for the theater department.” 

“I don't think we have time, with practice and all, but—you were. Really good, yeah,” Zach says, and then adds after a moment, “thank you. I know this was fucking weird.” 

“Hey,” Dylan says. “It's all good. Also I was joking, Z, fuck.” He grins and sprawls out. “We skipping Monday morning classes? Just hang out here tonight, have some marshmallows over a campfire, pretend you're an intruder again?” 

Zach blinks. “Yeah, uh, I'm good with that.” 

“Okay,” Dylan says. “This time you're the kind of weird gay intruder who just really wants to suck an unsuspecting straight guy's dick though I think.” 

“You didn't do a ton of the straight guy bit this time.” 

“I got distracted, sue me.” Dylan grins. “Are you gonna be good with all this, once we go home? Not freaking out or beating yourself up over wanting it?” 

“I'll try,” Zach offers. He's honestly not sure. It still just seems—messed up. But messed up in a way that Dylan can work with, and is happy to work with, so—that's something, anyway. 

Dylan leans in to kiss him, slow and sweet. “We'll work on that, I guess. In the meantime, I got interrupted from my nap by a horny stranger with no facial expressions, so I think I'll get back to that.” 

“I have at least two facial expressions,” Zach says, his usual response, and Dylan pats him on the head. A nap sounds good, honestly. 

“Sure, bud.”


End file.
